


Haunted

by Ill_Tempered_Clavier



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: (also a smattering of smut), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, a song of angst and fluff, book AU, this story is dark and full of terrors, yet another ghost story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-05 03:23:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11569281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ill_Tempered_Clavier/pseuds/Ill_Tempered_Clavier
Summary: Jaime is doomed to haunt Harrenhal after his death because he didn’t go back for Brienne after Roose Bolton released him. His is not the only restless spirit inhabiting the restored castle, but he is the only benign one. When a woman who looks exactly like Brienne takes up residence, he finally has a chance to try to make things right.Trigger warning: rape threats.





	1. The Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne arrives at Harrenhal.

Brienne pauses a moment to take in the castle after getting out of the taxi and gathering her luggage. She’s seen photographs of course, but it isn’t until she stands at the gates that she can appreciate the sheer scale of Harrenhal. For the first time in her life, she feels small, craning her neck up at the tall lopsided towers and signature melted stone.

Despite its bad historical reputation, its central location in the Riverlands and beautiful countryside managed to tempt enough investors to fix the place up as a high-class resort and conference center. God’s Eye Lake provides opportunities for water sports and hiking trails crisscrossed the land for miles. The rich history brings in historians (or just enthusiastic amateur researchers like herself) all seasons. 

She wasn’t sure what she was going to do with herself for the two weeks’ vacation her captain was making her finally take until she ran across a family tree in her father’s papers. She knew “Brienne” was an old Tarth name, but when she saw an oh-so distant great-aunt with her name and recorded as having died at Harrenhal, she knew she had to go. The trip practically planned itself. Her friends couldn’t understand her enthusiasm. 

“Brie, isn’t that kind of morbid?” Marg looks at her friend, concern pulling at her face.

“It was hundreds of years ago and interesting enough to be noted and remembered. That’s something, I guess. What was she doing there in the first place? It’s a mystery.”

“That’s _one_ way to look at it. She was probably visiting someone. Or getting married.”

“Visiting seems unlikely—this was right in the middle of the War of the Five Kings and all sources agree that the Riverlands were a mess, being pillaged by one force after another. Harrenhal changed lords at least twice—maybe more. A marriage or even betrothal to someone at such a large castle would have been noteworthy, I think, and ours was never a terribly important house so it would have been a big deal and better documented. After all, a woman’s only value back then was who married. But that’s why I want to go there and find out if there’s any sort of record or clues about what happened.”

“Isn’t it supposed to be haunted?” Marg wasn’t going to give up. “There are all kinds of stories about ghosts and have been for _years_. Nasty stuff.”

Brienne laughed. “Really, Marg? In this day and age? If there were actually ghosts, the maesters would have proven it by now.”

“But what if they didn’t want to let paranormal researchers in? The renovations were _insanely_ expensive. They won’t want any bad press to scare off visitors.”

“And how many news stories have you heard about guests reporting ghosts or running from the hotel screaming?”

“Two words: hush money.”

Brienne rolls her eyes and lets loose an expansive laugh. “C’mon, any publicity is good publicity when it comes to bookings. They’d be playing it up in the press to rake in both the skeptics and ghost hunting enthusiasts. Enough, Marg: I’m going. It’ll be good to get away. Given the lack of cell service around there, I might actually disconnect from work for a change.”

“Well, at least find a hottie you can cuddle up with to protect you from any wayward restless spirits,” Marg grins with her special brand of benign, cheerful lasciviousness. 

And now here she is, staring up at the fortress-cum-resort. While the place is immense and ancient, she feels no foreboding sense of dread—not even a tingle. Laughing softly to herself, thinking about Margaery’s insistence that the place was haunted, she gathers her bags and makes her way to the front desk.

The clerk, Pia, is a pretty young woman all too happy to go over the grounds map and highlight points of historical interest. “I’ve put you in the Widow’s Tower, which is connected to the Kingspyre Tower by a beautiful stone bridge. It gives a wonderful view of the surrounding area! 

“We’ve completely rebuilt the sept in the same design as others of that period located within large fortresses. There are lectures in the bear pit three days a week on a variety of topics, including history and local flora and fauna; you’ll find the schedule and topics on Channel 1 of the TV and posted on the wall outside the entrance to the stands. 

“We have a historical research center located in the Lord’s Solar in the Kingspyre Tower where you can peruse digitized versions of historical documents from and related to Harrenhal’s long history. Finally, our massive bathhouse is famous for a reason! You have full access as part of your daily resort fee. I recommend you take full advantage of them and have a good soak—this is the low season and we’re particularly quiet this week, so there’s a good chance you’ll have them all to yourself!” 

Brienne steels herself. “This may sound silly, but a friend of mine said this place is haunted. I mean, it’s an old castle and being such an old structure, it’s bound to make the odd noise—”

Pia takes a discrete glance around the room to make sure no one is listening, and then leans into Brienne. “We’ve had a number of guests report odd things. I’ve never seen anything myself, but there are times when I’ve been in the Widow’s Tower and have felt…something. Some have reported items moved, a few people even said that they had to duck small objects, but mostly, it’s just a feeling of dread. One of the the groundskeepers has reported hearing roaring from the bear pit.” Pia’s eyes glowed conspiratorially. “Then there’s one of my colleagues, Cersei, has reported glimpsing a black knight with a golden hand and a bitter smile. She can be a bit of a liar though—she likes attention entirely too much.”

Brienne laughs, “Well, a glaring knight sounds better than clouds of dread, ghost bears, or flying soap dishes.”

“Let me know if you see or hear anything!” Pia winks and shows her where her room is located on the map. Brienne makes her way up. _Thank the Seven for elevators,_ she reflects, thinking about having to climb the tower stairs everyday. The room is bright with the afternoon sun, comfortably furnished. She is gratified to see she has a view of the lake. 

After unpacking, she decides to walk around a bit and get the lay of the land. It feels good to stretch her legs after the flight from Tarth and the long taxi ride from Riverrun International Airport. The bathhouse really is remarkably large, if dark. _Provides some privacy given the communal nature of the tubs,_ she thinks. She tours the towers, admires the view from the bridge, and stops at the bear pit to see what talks are coming up. She is glad to find the next is on the role of Harrenhal in the War of the Five Kings: perfect. Hopefully the lecturer will be able to provide some guidance on where to look to find out if there is any record of her ancestor.

So engrossed was she in the schedule and her thoughts, she doesn’t notice a dark shape behind her on her right shift in the lengthening twilight shadows. It whispers, “ _Brienne…?_ ”

She thinks she hears her name and turns, but sees no one there. _I should never have listened to Marg and her silly ghost stories, asking the front desk even,_ she sighs, laughing at herself as she heads back up to her room to order room service. She can’t seem to shake the feeling that someone is following her, but when she looks, she never catches sight of anyone.

The feeling only increases when she shuts the door to her room and turns on the lights. The quality of the air changes from a watchful presence to something more sinister. _Stop being an idiot,_ she chides herself, shaking her head at her imagination. After scanning the menu and deliberating on whether or not to indulge in a glass of wine (on one hand, it’s vacation and might help relax her; on the other, if she’s having these silly thoughts sober, surely the wine will only make it worse) and decides against it.

She moves to pick up the phone but before her hand touches the handset, dread inexplicably roils in her stomach and something crashes in the bathroom. Hand shaking, she opens the door to find the complementary shampoo, conditioner, and lotion dripping down the walls and on the mirror, a message written in soap: “Sapphires can’t save you now. You are ours.” An empty mini-shampoo bottle flies past her ear, quickly followed by the conditioner.

A dark, ugly laugh bubbles up behind her and she spins around once again to nothingness. Desperately trying to control her breaths and remain calm, Brienne looks around the room, under the bed, inside the wardrobe, in the show-bath combination—anywhere someone could hide. Another laugh in her ear. 

She checks the TV and bedside clock radio, confirming that they are turned off. She unplugs them to be sure. 

Another laugh. 

Her heart pounds in her chest, but she refuses to give into panic. It’s a strange message, and small, harmless objects being flung…and a sinister laugh, but none of those are fatal. “Show yourself! What is this, some stupid practical joke?”

Another laugh, always behind her.

“Are you afraid that I’ll find you? You _should_ be: I’m a decorated police officer and I have an seventh degree black belt in judo!”

This time the voice whispers menacingly and to Brienne’s horror, a shadowy form begins to coalesce. “So nice of you to come back and join us. It’s been a while. We had so much fun the last time you were here. Did you miss the bear pit? This time you will take our cocks in your ugly cunt whether you like it or not…and I rather hope you won’t as its better sport for me.”

For all her intense physical training and level head, Brienne is momentarily shocked into inaction. She knows how to fight people, but how do you fight…nothing? The specter’s words barely register as she tries to figure out what to do next. 

Before she can decide to run or try to find a way to fight, another disembodied voice hisses, “You will not have her. Not again. Not this time. My watch has not yet ended.”

The lights cut out and Brienne jumps, unable to stifle a yip. She hears…something. It’s not quite a scuffle, but the air in the room becomes even more dense and harder to breathe. She isn’t sure what, but she is sure she sees a flash of gold in the near darkness.

Then the lights come back on and the air feels lighter but she finds she can’t move. The second voice mutters in her ear, “He will not bother you again tonight. You should move rooms though, something not in the Widow’s Tower. They never should have put you here. If it were called the Wench’s Tower or the Maiden’s Tower, well, that might be another story.” The voice laughed, but it was not menacing—a little sad, perhaps.

She turns her head, trying to locate the source of the voice that strangely resonated with her, fills her with an unexplainable yearning.

“Who _are_ you? _What_ are you?”

“A friend. I will stand guard and watch over you until you change rooms. Have them put you in the Kingspyre. It’s the quietest tower.”

“But—”

“Questions later. Move now.”

So she picks up the receiver and rings down to the front desk explaining the mess in the bathroom, security fears, and asks to be put Kingspyre Tower just as she was told. They are all too happy to accommodate the request, glad she isn’t demanding a full cancellation and refund. It makes her realize she is not the first.

A manager knocks on her door just as she’s finished repacking and escorts her to her new room, giving her a free upgrade and generous in-room dining credit for her trouble. Once she’s locked the door behind her, she calls out tentatively, “Hello?”

But all is silence. The room is truly empty and the only knock she heard for the rest of the night signals the arrival of room service.


	2. The Situation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime reveals himself to Brienne.

Brienne wakes up with dawn, surprised to have slept through the night. Her dreams were intense, featuring a filthy golden haired man, stunning even unshaven and with unkempt hair. She is wearing armor and carrying a sword. It feels natural. He is her prisoner and doesn’t stop talking, warning her to stay out of the Widow’s Tower and to never go into the passages below it. He spins around, and despite his bound hands, he seizes her gorget, pulling her to him, his green eyes boring into hers. “Promise me,” he urges. His voice still seems to echo in her ears as she wakes up, startled.

Pulling on a sweater over her tank top, she moves to the window to peek through the curtains to admire the view. The voice that saved her last night—the same one from her dreams, she realizes—sounds from behind her, close. “Sleep well?”

She spins around, unsurprised to see the room empty. “Where are you? _What_ are you? Is this some sort of elaborate joke?”

“Well, if it _is_ a joke, it is either a poor one or a long one and _must_ be on me because I have been stuck in this godsforsaken hellhole for at least four centuries. I’ll admit to not keeping a close count, though.”

There is a shimmer in the air from where it seems like the voice is coming from and she turns to face it. “I feel utterly ridiculous asking this, but are you a ghost?”

He laughs. “Well, you’re faster on the uptake these days than you used to be. Yes, and I’m stuck here for my sins, no doubt.” The shimmer in the air grows slightly more solid and man-shaped. It is nearly as tall as she.

“And…the other?”

“Ghost of—I won’t name him. One of the Bloody Mummers. I knew them in life. They…” he trails off. She waits, but he doesn’t complete his thought.

“Who are you? And why are you helping me?”

“I was a knight. You are a maiden—and I only rescue maidens.” She can actually hear the leer in his voice. 

“I’m not,” She mumbles defiantly, blushing hotly. She’s a modern woman, after all. “How did you know my name?” She is now positive his was the voice she heard at the bear pit and she finds herself moving towards the cloud which continues to resolve itself into the shape of a man as if slowly coming into focus through a photographer’s lens.

“Brienne,” he breathes. “You have her name. You look remarkably like her—she was quite…distinctive. You _must_ be related. You’re from Tarth?” His right hand gleams gold, and is she is somehow sure that once his face forms, his hair will also be gold and his eyes green. “Hm. Must have been the uncle up at the Wall.” 

She nods, shocked into silence.

“Guess everyone plays fast and loose with vows of chastity,” he chuckles. “I owe your family a debt. And as a Lannister, we always pay our debts. I’ve been waiting a long time to try to pay mine.”

“A Lannister? I’ve never heard or seen anything connecting our houses. What’s your name?”

“Names are powerful things. I shouldn’t be bandying mine around, particularly as a spirit.”

“You said you owed my family a debt.”

A sigh, a nod. “Ser Jaime Lannister.”

She gasps. “Ser Jaime Lannister? _THE Ser Jaime Lannister?_ ” She sees him brace himself, for what, she’s not sure. “The Lion of Winter!?” 

His head jerks up in surprise; it’s not the name he expected. “The what?” He looks nearly solid now. His eyes blaze green (just as she thought) with some emotion she can’t quite read. He is so beautiful, it makes something in her ache. He is indeed wearing armor—black boiled leather armor—and a sword with a golden lion hilt set with rubies sits at his right hip.

“You were brother to Mad Queen Cersei? You brought Sansa Stark home? You fought at the Wall?”

He nods, face tight.

“That’s what they call you in the history books, ‘The Lion of Winter.’ Because of your role in North and at the Wall.”

He huffs a laugh. “Well, I’ve certainly been called worse. Kingslayer, Sister-Fucker… ‘The Lion of Winter.’ I like it.” 

Brienne decides to not comment on the sister business. There had been rather pointed insinuations in most of the historical texts after all, but what did it matter now? She seizes on what actually interests her beyond meeting such a storied personage. “You knew one of my ancestors? She had the same name?”

“Yes.” He is quiet, and by now, she can see that he is looking away from her, staring out the window, lost in the past. 

She pulls him out of it. “I think I dreamed of you.”

His head snaps to face her and he opens his mouth to say something, stops, then starts again. “What did you dream?”

“You were my prisoner. We were walking in the countryside. You were dirty, disheveled. You made me promise to stay out of the Widow’s Tower, particularly the cells beneath it. It seemed so real. You grabbed me, so solid.”

He shudders and nods. “I give good advice. Heed it. There are three malevolent spirits here who would be thrilled to torment you. In fact, you should probably leave here right now. I should have told you to go last night. They don’t come into the Kingspyre Tower very often, but for you…”

“Why me?”

“Your ancestor.” His eyes slip from hers, and wander the room. “They got a hold of her. I had them killed later when I found out, but I could not-- _did_ not save her.” 

“I came here to find out her fate. I thought I’d have to look through the old keep records to find out anything. You’ve have saved me some research! You actually knew her?”

“Yes. We were captured as she escorted me back to Kings Landing as her prisoner. As sworn sword to Catelyn Stark, she was to exchange me for Sansa and Arya Stark. My father was very rich and powerful and so they released me. Yours—Brienne’s—was not, despite her noble birth. I thought they meant to ransom her, but instead, they threw her into the bear pit for their sport with only a tourney sword. She was a masterful swordswoman—she was a match for me, and I was the best of my generation—but even she could not win against such a foe with such a weapon.” He meets her eyes again, his dark with sadness and guilt. “I am sure that is why I am doomed to haunt Harrenhal: I shouldn’t have left her here. I should have come back for her.” His eyes harden with resolve. “I won’t let you suffer the same fate. You need to leave.”

“But what about the other ghosts? We can’t just leave them here. What if they decide to hurt someone else?”

“They’re generally quiet enough, don’t have the strength to do much more than annoy the living. But with you here, I’m afraid they’ll get ideas, get stronger. Better for you to go. I can keep them distracted. They enjoy trying to torment me nearly as much as they enjoy tormenting the living.”

“What do you mean ‘get stronger’?”

“As you may have noticed, ghosts generally don’t take form. It’s an effort to take and hold shape—I almost never do these days. Because we are dead, we tend to live in our past. We need energy from the living to focus on the present time, and even more energy to interact with the world. Talking to us, noticing us, that gives us more power for things like moving objects or touching. So even while I must expend quite a bit of energy to appear to you, the amount of attention and focus you give to me is enough to keep it up and then some. But even as you give me strength, noticing and reacting to P—the other ghost—will also have energized _him_. They will remember you and seek you out—a bridge from the past to the present.” 

He shakes his head gazing at her. “You are the clearest thing I’ve seen in centuries. They will think so, too. I don’t think it’s safe for you here.”

“I’m not a coward and I’ve never backed down from a fight. There must be some way. Everything has a weakness.”

His eyes crinkled with his sad smile. “She was stubborn, too. A veritable aurochs of a woman.” He refocuses on the woman in front of him. “But this is not the time to fight. I can’t let them get you. Not again.”

“I’m _not_ her. They’ve not gotten me.”

“I won’t chance it. Please.”

He is both commanding and pleading, nearly nose-to-nose with her, not something most men can do. For some reason she can’t quite pin down, she doesn’t want to leave. Last night was terrifying, but then she didn’t know any of the rules. And despite what she has learned of her forbear’s fate, she wants to know more.

“No. I’ll stay and fight.” She reaches out a hand and gently lays it on his shoulder. At first it gives a bit, and tingles, cold, but firms up a little. It’s solid, but like nothing else she’s ever felt before. “Help me.” 

He sighs, eyes sad, shaking his head. “Brienne, no. I can’t let you endanger yourself. Leave. I’ll distract them.” He disappears, her fingers now touching nothing but air.

She calls out, sure he’s still listening. “Pay your debt, Ser Jaime! Maybe you’ll even find peace. You won’t know until you try!”


	3. A Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which history repeats itself and then does not.

The rest of the day is uneventful and quiet. Taking what she’s learned from Ser Jaime’s remarks about the original Brienne, she makes her way up to the guest historical archive center located in the former solar in the Kingspyre to look through their digitized records. Noting the size of the room and number of carrels, clearly they do good business with the amateur historian crowd. 

There are lots of documents on the War of the Five Kings—it’s a popular historical subject and Harrenhal saw a lot of action. She pours over records of Ser Jaime’s brief imprisonment and information about the Bloody Mummers and their reign of terror. It’s very discomfiting and for the first time since she fled her wrecked room the other night, she begins to consider his demands that she leave. Her ancestor is mentioned only once in a brief footnote listing those known to have fallen victim to the bear pit. _A bad end, but could have been worse,_ she thinks considering the myriad methods of torture, rape, and painful murder on record as being employed by the Mummers. 

She takes a walk by the lake to clear her head, eats a quick lunch, and then goes back to her room to do some paranormal research of her own. She is determined not to let them win, and she wonders if Ser Jaime’s spirit would be released if she could manage to defeat the ghosts of the Bloody Mummers. 

Settling in for the long haul, she puts her travel kettle on and makes a strong cup of tea. It’s hard going trying to sift through what might be helpful and what is fact regarding the exorcising of spirits. Using what little Ser Jaime told her about how they work and her own brief experience, she slowly begins to sort obviously fictional accounts from those that might have a grain of truth. The journal she brought to document her family history begins to fill with notes on an entirely different subject. Patterns begin to appear, and she begins to feel a bit of hope.

Not being terribly religious herself, she doesn’t immediately think of seeking help down that route, but some initial reading does show that the Faith of the Seven has some rites meant to put spirits to rest. She remembers the small sept on the grounds. It might be worth looking into and she makes a note. She never would have thought ghosts existed at all before this, so she won’t dismiss possible help from that quarter.

After a few hours, her tea gone cold, she stands and stretches and realizes she’s a little disappointed that he hasn’t returned. She shakes her head at herself and decides to visit the bathhouses.

As is traditional, she strips in the changing room and comes out wrapped in a towel. She is glad to have the place to herself with no one to gawk at her. It is indeed grand in the old style with several tubs large enough to hold many people each. The steam creates solid shafts of cool light in an otherwise shadowed room, creating a comforting (if false) sense of privacy. Quickly dropping her towel on the planking, she sinks into the hot water and feels her muscles begin to relax. 

She pulls her knees to her chest to stretch when she hears the soft pad of footsteps. Looking up, she sees Ser Jaime approaching her tub, stripping off his tunic. His hands move to unlace his pants and she squeaks, “What the hells do you think you’re doing?!”

“Taking a bath. It’s been a while since I had enough of a body to do this, you know. I don’t think I’ve ever tried it after I died and I’m curious,” He grins at her wolfishly.

“There are plenty of other baths!” She counters. 

“Some things never change, do they?” he barks his laughter. She doesn’t understand this at all but before she can respond, he drops his trousers naked as his name day (but far more glorious she can’t help but note) and sinks into her tub on the opposite side, continuing to never break eye contact. “I like this one just fine.” Something she doesn’t quite understand moves behind his eyes and while he is still smiling, there is a heaviness to him.

“You think me unchivalrous to join you so. And perhaps it is. It’s definitely selfish. And history repeating itself. I guess I always was a bit sentimental.” She is still glaring at him, and so he continues, clarifying. “We’ve done this before, you and I.”

“I am not she.”

“Oh, I’m really not so sure about that, wench. Every look, every movement of yours is hers. Every line. Your very freckles are the same. It’s comforting to know you’ve been out in the world, probably protecting people with your sense of unshakable honor and valor. Let me guess: you work as some sort of guard?”

She blinks at him. “I’m a policewoman.” It’s his turn to look blank. “I suppose the nearest analogue to your time period would be a city guard?” At this Jaime nods. 

“And let me guess: you’re so honest and honorable, it’s gotten you in trouble at work. There’s always graft in the guards, and if I know you, you wouldn’t have any of it.”

She nods again. “I’m not popular, but I have my friends and allies.” She pauses, considering him from behind her knees, fascinated that he is immersed in water. “You said this was history repeating itself? What do you mean?”

A gleam in his eye, “This is not the first time we’ve bathed together here—in this very tub, in fact. You need not be shy with me, my lady—I’ve seen all of you before.” Her eyes go wide, and he chuckles, arms expansive, then sighs, leaning his head against the tub’s wall, regarding her with a small fond smile. “I was half dead then and I’m fully dead now. I guess that’s progress of a sort?” He chuckles.

“Explain.”

“When we were captured by…them…on the road to Kings Landing, they threatened you with rape. Even though I hated you then, it bothered me. You were an honorable, highborn maid doing your duty—”

“And if I were lowborn?” she asks incredulously. 

He meets her eyes, steady and cool, “If you were lowborn, you would likely not still been a maiden and already raped at some point before. It was quite clear that neither were the case. Anyhow, I lied and told them that Tarth was known as the Sapphire Isle because of gemstone mines and that if they ruined you, they would miss the chance at your father paying a generous ransom. They relented. But then I ran my mouth a bit too much—trusted too much to my father’s power, my family’s wealth, my name, got a little too smug, and they cut off my hand.” Brienne gasped. He raises his stump, rotating it, considering the scars. “I was the greatest swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms you know, and they knew exactly how to cut me down to size.” He captures her gaze again. “I wanted to die, but you wouldn’t let me.

“I caught fever and you took pity on me, caring for me, cleaning me when I fouled myself like a babe. When we arrived here, we found Lord Roose Bolton in charge of the castle and nominally aligned with the Starks. He ordered us bathed and to join us at his table.” Jaime sighs, and captures her gaze again.

“You were in this bath—in that very place—when I stumbled in, trying to fight off my fever’s delirium. That thrice-damned cunt Qyburn had cleaned the wound and stitched it as neatly as possible—if nothing else, the man’s needlework could stand to any of the finest highborn ladies’ handiwork and he did know his business—and scandalized you by joining you in the bath. Partly because teasing you was the only joy I had left to me, and partly because I was truly afraid I might faint from the pain, the fever, or the heat. I did not want to be the first Lannister to die in the bath.” He tilts his head, considering. 

“Despite your dutiful care for my physical person—no doubt you saw it as part of your oath to Catelyn Stark to bring me to Kings Landing in exchange for her daughters—you still looked at me with contempt.” He sighs a bit, regarding her a moment. “You’ve mellowed in your subsequent lives, my lady. I hope it’s because the world has been kinder to you.”

They are quiet a moment and she quirks her eyebrows at him, nodding, indicating he should go on. He laughs, “But you’re still a taciturn wench—a silent giantess.” She is surprised to find that she doesn’t bristle at this. There is too much affection in his voice, in his eyes. “So. You called me Kingslayer with all the venom in your voice that I’d been hearing for years, only for some reason, coming from you, still, it cut me and I snapped. I insulted you in a most abhorrent manner and you rose like a righteous goddess from the waters to physically challenge me.” He winks, grinning, “That’s how I’ve seen it all before.”

She rolls her eyes at him, and it draws a laugh out of him which turns into a sigh. “I apologized and asked for a truce. You told me there must be trust for a truce, and I confessed that I did trust you. And then I found myself pouring out my greatest secret: why I became the Kingslayer. I hadn’t told anyone, not Tyrion, not Cersei.” He pauses and sees that she understands the import of this. _No: history_ hadn’t forgotten his slaying of Aerys.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone before, Ser Jaime?” 

He pauses and thinks on it, and then returns her measured look. “Because no one was truly interested. They’d made up their minds that I did it to further my father’s power, to further my own. I perched on the throne waiting to see who would claim it, but I never wanted it. And they would never have believed that. As for my sister and my brother? Neither of them ever asked.”

“And why _did_ you do it? Aerys was known as the Mad King and the horrible things he did were known—the wildfire, the torture—”

“Ah, but they weren’t widely known then. Interesting. History recorded that?”

Brienne nods. “Yes, the question historians argue over is why no one did anything sooner.” This makes Jaime throw his head back laughing near hysterically. She starts to reach out to touch his shoulder, then stops, realizing their position. When he calms, Brienne continues, “And you told _your_ Brienne all this but no one else? No one else ever knew?”

“No one but you would have cared and believed.”

“And what happened after? You said you dined with the lord of the castle—Bolton?”

“Yes. First, I fainted in the bath and you so kindly caught me. The first and last time I was to know your gentle embrace,” he sketches a bow. Brienne is shocked to find him looking at her a little wistfully at this. “Then we were hauled up to dinner—Bolton found you a _shockingly_ ugly pink dress he insisted you to wear and he served us steak—rather difficult to eat with only one hand, you’ll realize. At the end of the meal, he informed us that I would be sent to King’s Landing to be ransomed, but that you would be kept here.”

He is quiet for a while, deep in thought, pain etching his features. He looks at her, eyes furious. “I took my leave from you in your cell, still in that godsawful pink dress, and you received me like a lady—fucking Cersei couldn’t have had held herself with more dignity, despite you clearly knowing the picture you painted—and you charged me to complete the quest on your behalf since you would not be able to continue,” he chokes. 

“You told me that you saw honor in me. You called me ‘Ser Jaime.’” He pauses again, thinking, then meeting her eyes. “You cannot imagine what that meant to me, being mocked as the Kingslayer, a man without honor…to be called ‘Ser’ with all sincerity from the most honorable knight I’d met in such a long while from a lady who knew what awaited her…” His eyes burn into hers. “For all my prior experience and advice, I later realized that you probably knew better than I what would follow for you.”

“And I left you here. I left you here with those horrible men because I wanted to go home and fuck my sister.” He is seething. “I left the most good, decent person I’d met in years behind with men I knew were monsters… I have deserved every minute of this hell here and more.”

“Jaime…”

“No, Brienne. And you know what the well-earned salt in the wound is? I would have felt awful enough about it as it was and accepted this fate without question, but Bran Stark, the boy I pushed out a window because he caught Cersei and me fucking and I was terrified that they would find out about the children and kill us all? He came back from beyond the Wall some kind of seer. I had taken the black by then, but King Jon and Lady Sansa wanted me killed all over again when they found out when I’d done to their baby brother. Bran spoke for me, said they needed my sword still. But Bran got his own revenge: he got me alone shortly thereafter, told me what might have been had I not abandoned you had I made sure you lived. Such a look on his face. It had been so long since I’d seen such hate, such disdain. And it hurt because I knew I deserved it and any sadness I saw in him was for you.”

Jaime looks haunted himself. “It’s remarkable how one action can change the course of history. You would have lived. I would have sent you off in well-fitted armor and my sword to find and secure Sansa Stark. Tyrion would have lived. He would have killed my father, but he would have lived. Hells, he would have been Hand to the Dragon Queen! Cersei wouldn’t have blown up all of Kings Landing, only the Sept of Baelor.” His voice breaks. Can a ghost cry? It seemed so: what looked to be tears tracked down his face. “It would have driven me to break with her sooner, to seize the remaining Lannister forces and bring them north to fortify the fighting against the Others and minimize her destruction.” 

He stops, eyes off in the distance capturing hers, focusing. 

“We…we would have fought side by side, on the _same_ side for once. My brother would have helped usher in an era of peace driven by diplomacy. We…we…” And he shakes his head, which falls onto his chest.

Brienne glides to him through the water and sits on the bench next to him, her hand on his shoulder, the odd solid fuzziness from before, although not as cold. “Jaime, what could you have done? Really? What could you have done? You had no soldiers, you’d lost your hand. Had they even given you a weapon?”

He shakes his head, refusing to meet her eyes, his self-hatred evident. “No, but I was _important._ Important enough and rich enough for them to do as I said. I even dreamt of you that first night away, naked as in the baths, but with a flaming sword. You cut down my enemies-- _ghosts from my past_ down in the bowels of Casterly Rock”—he laughs at the irony, “and protected me when my own sword’s flame extinguished. I woke with your name on my lips like a prayer, but instead of turning them around and getting you, I let them take me to Kings Landing because all I could think about was fucking Cersei.”

She feels deep compassion, a strange tenderness well up inside of her and can’t seem to stop her hand from moving from his shoulder to his face, her thumb tracing his oddly spongy cheekbone. “Jaime, it’s done. It’s history. I’m sure she forgave you. She wouldn’t have expected anyone to come rescue her. She must have known the risks and wanted the oath kept, _which you did_. For what it’s worth, _I_ forgive you.” He shakes his head in wonderment, disbelief, unable to accept this. 

“The War of the Five Kings was, what, five hundred years ago? And you’ve been stuck here? With these awful ghosts? Surely that is penance enough.”

He whispers unblinking, sorrow shadowing the perfect lines of his face and his voice. “Bran told me I would have married you. We would have had children. Tarth would have gotten its heirs. I don’t begrudge screwing my father over by leaving Casterly Rock without an heir, but Tarth… I would have been a husband, a true father.”

And again, he comes into further focus, and she realizes that strange light in Ser Jaime’s eyes that she didn’t recognize at first is love. He hurts so. She leans in and kisses him gently, lingeringly. It is unlike any kiss she’s known before as his lips are as uncertainly solid as the rest of him has been. She feels him grasp her face in his peculiar touch and return it as best he can. She finds there is enough of him for her to rest her forehead against his.

“Brienne,” he breathes. “Gods, I have missed and yearned for you.”

“I’m here.” Part of her screams at the madness of this, but she acquiesces. 

“I’m only sort of here,” he tries to joke.

“No, I think you’re still here,” and she wraps him in her arms and godsdamn if it doesn’t feel like coming home. She will never tell Margaery that her holiday hookup was with a ghost. His arms hold her steadily, a strange tingling sensation. 

Then she realizes they’re naked. He feels her tense in his embrace and looks at her questioningly.

“…Brienne?”

She coughs, blushes (which he glories in) and stammers out, “I…I just realized we’re naked. Or rather, I’m naked and you’re a ghost.” She feels him smile into her hair. (How can a ghost _do that_ she wonders…not that she isn’t grateful…and that leads to a number of other dangerous thoughts that she nips in the bud.)

“Do you know how many times I’ve imagined taking you in this tub?”

“No,” she squeaks.

“I first dreamt of you—literally—that first night away. Then again in Kings Landing. My reunion with Cersei was lacking. Probably because my right arm was lacking, and it became clear to me that she only wanted me for my sword hand.” She feels what passes for his nose run up and down her neck, his hands roaming, stroking her. “Then I’d start wondering about you in my waking dreams, while standing on guard duty, and later when I took Sansa north to her half-brother.” 

He pauses, leans back to look at her, “You know, father made me marry her. I pleaded she was too young for a bedding ceremony and used our expected absence from the festivities to escape north. I think she expected me to defile her anyhow given my reputation. After all, a man who will bed his sister?” He huffs. “I had killed her father’s bannermen, captured her father, and fought her brother, after all. She didn’t begin to believe my vow until we’d made it far past the Twins. She never entirely forgave me, but she was polite and pleaded my case to Jon Snow to let me take the black. Then in Castle Black, on the Wall, in the frozen wilds, sometimes you would come to me in my dreams. Those mornings, I would feel ready to fight a hundred wights.”

They look at each other, gently testing their ability to touch, and he sighs. “My ability to…manifest…has limits, even with exchanges as powerful as this. But as you discovered the other night, I can come to you in your dreams. I tried to stay as respectful as possible given the circumstances…”

“That was you and her wasn’t it? She led you a leash, filthy and unkempt?”

He grinned looking at their bodies up and down in the water, “My tongue is still filthy and unkempt. And to be fair, I didn’t give you any reason to think that I could be trusted to bathe.” His eyes darken and his voice has no trace of smile. “Let me come to you tonight.”

She suddenly shimmies back. “I am not her. I…I don’t doubt that you knew and cared for a woman who looked like me, but I am not her.”

“You bear her looks, her manner, her name, you speak with her words…I know you, Brienne. I feel you. Will you say you don’t know me?” 

She is silent and still.

Again he asks, “Let me come to you tonight.”

She blinks. She nods. 

They exchange another strange kiss, and a part of Brienne wonders if it is only possible at all given the sheer force of both their wills that they be able to. He ghosts the fingers of his hand down the side of her face, tracing her neck, down her side to her waist and then he is gone.

Feeling herself alone, she curls back up, trying to process the sheer insanity of the day. Does she really intend to start an affair with a ghost? A ghost who abandoned the very relative whose death she came here to research? She sees his deep sense of guilt and self-blame. Brienne doesn’t have her ancestor’s memory and so can’t find it in herself to care in light of the sheer anticipation of what dreams may come. Listening to him, seeing the pain in eyes, hearing it in his voice, both coated with regret and self-loathing, she thinks that she might have forgiven him, too.

When she returns to her room, she slips easily into sleep.


	4. A Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coming to terms: with themselves, with defeating the Mummers.

She is surprised to realize that she is dreaming because she sees he has two hands. They are in the baths again, alone again, sitting on opposite sides of the same well. He looks at her as if to devour her. 

“Good evening, my lady.”

“Hello,” she responds, suddenly unsure of herself, of them. “Am…am I truly your lady?” Her dreaming self voices her doubts from earlier. “I think you mistake me for someone else.”

“No. No, I don’t, Brienne. I _know_ you. I have always known you, although I was slow to admit it.” 

And maybe it’s dream logic, but she believes him. When he comes to her, cupping her face in his hands, his expression sure, she lets him pull her lips to his and wrap her arms around his broad shoulders now solid and reassuring, his hands cupping her face, then tracing down her back, her waist, one settling at her hip, the other rising to her breast. She breathes him in and his mouth recaptures hers.

“Jaime, I know you, too,” she breathes and strokes a hand through his long dirty hair.

His look is intense as he searches for confirmation in her eyes and then settles. “Brienne. My lady.”

“Yes,” she breathes into him.

“ _My love_ ,” he gathers her to him, and she feels him hard against her.

“Yes,” she breathes into him again.

He looks at her, unsure. She nods. He shakes his head. “Not yet,” and sliding his hands underneath her, lifts and slides her to the lip of the bath and sinks his head into her very core as she cries out her pleasure. He has nearly forgotten what it’s like to have two hands, but is happy to relearn what they can do as she shudders above him.

“Maiden, you taste even better than I imagined,” he draws back once she has ceased her pleasure. 

She grows bold and slides down astride him, hand grasping and positioning him, sinking down, keeping his gaze, watching it go wide. She gasps at the sensation and whispers, “Jaime.”

His eyes are wild as he rises up to meet her. He sneaks his much-missed right hand between them as they rock to completion together and she convulses around him, his mouth warm on hers. He is so warm he nearly burns. It feels so real as he slips from her and gathers her in his arms.

She wakes up in the hotel room, but not alone. His cool, fuzzy presence is next to her, looking as solid as anyone she has seen on the street. His strange touch cups her face.

“Brienne. Gods. That was worth the wait. Even like this.”

She is dazzled by him. A part of her screams at herself with Margaery’s voice _What the hell is this? Yes, he’s hot as hell, but what_ is _this?_ Some doubt in her eyes must show because she sees Jaime’s expression darken, grow distant. 

“Brienne, I’m sorry if I took advantage. I thought—”

She feels herself come to a conclusion and covers his hand with her own. “That’s not it. Jaime, we will figure this out.” Her eyes are his Evenstar and he cannot find it in himself to question her. “We will free you. We will find a way.” She is filled with a surety she’s never had the luxury of before in her memory. There is no doubt in her.

His strange, cold arms wrap around her, and she doesn’t flinch. She snuggles into his cool neck and kisses him. He takes her face in his hand, tender look in his eyes and dissipates as she slips back into sleep.

~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ 

When she awakes, she lays in bed for another hour just remembering, savoring. It’s very unlike her, but what else is vacation for? Or a multi-century love affair for? She feels both remarkably full and empty. She mentally smacks herself.

Next on her list is to find a way to carefully search out the knowledge of the resident septon on necromancy. Easy, right? 

It’s the first time she’s entered a sept in years—maybe when her father died and she offered up lilies to the Father’s, Warrior’s, and Stranger’s altars? She finds herself drawn to the Mother’s altar first, and it’s odd as she’s never felt a kinship there before. But after last night, a glance at the Maiden’s altar tells her this is no longer the place for her despite it having been years since she lost her maidenhead. Unaccustomed, she kneels confused, thinking. After a time her eyes turn to the Warrior, and she also feels a welcome, an acknowledgement of her. She walks over, her fingers tracing the line of his pew, lighting a candle, thinking about her work as an officer, of Jaime, of how he knew she was still trying to protect the weak. Thinking of what she learned about him and his attempts to do the same, she also lights a candle at the Father’s altar.

A deep, kind voice rumbles from the back of the sept, “Welcome, sister. We don’t get too many of the devout these days. I am Septon Meribald.”

Brienne flushes with embarrassment. “Septon, I’m afraid I am one of those—those who aren’t devout—I just felt drawn here.” And she takes a breath and the opportunity. “And I confess I wanted to speak with you.”

“Well, all are welcome, and if you found yourself drawn here, you are even more so. Perhaps some of the Seven wished to have a special word with you?” He pauses to gauge her expression. “And if you wanted to talk? Well, I can’t say I get many visitors looking for conversation, so it’s quite welcome.” His smile is warm and open, his tone honest. “Come, the kitchens are kind and they sent me a special selection of the day’s bread and cheeses.” With waggling eyebrows he gestures for her to join him in the chambers just off the main room and she can’t help but follow.

He points to a comfortable chair—one of a pair—and puts a platter heaving with a generous portion of cheeses, olives, apples, and a fresh crusty loaf, quickly followed by weak ale on the small table between them. A large dog ambles in and puts its head in the septon’s lap.

“Now tell me, lady, what truly drove you to the sept today? You glow like the Maiden herself.”

Brienne blushes deeply but bravely plows on. “Septon, are you familiar with what has happened here? At Harrenhal? In the past?”

“What do you mean?”

“The history—the atrocities that have been committed here.”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

She spears him with her eyes, “I have heard and felt uneasy spirits here. One was kind but the others…”

The septon takes her measure, and then sighs. “Yes, my child, it’s true. There _are_ malevolent spirits here.” He gives her a sharp look. “Have they hurt you?”

“No, septon. One tried, but another one protected me. But surely they should not be allowed to prey upon the hapless?”

His eyes are shrewd, but then shakes his head, clearly at himself. “I have tried.”

“And what do the Seven say we should do to get rid of such spirits?”

“They must be vanquished by what would have destroyed them while they lived.”

“And if such a thing could be discovered, are there any protections the Seven might offer?”

The septon looks at her, not mocking or incredulous as she might have expected, but curious and thoughtful. “Yes. But only the Stranger has power over the dead and it is to the Stranger to decide how to remove such entities. I have yet to discover it despite my long study.”

“What protections, then?”

“You have begun them: ask those of the Seven who will bless you to do so. There _is_ some power if they accept you. Beyond that, it is in your hands.”

She gets up to go, but after considering the Crone and Stranger for a moment, lights a candle on their altars as well.

~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ 

Brienne leaves the sept feeling deeply unsatisfied and decides to lose herself in the concrete facts of history. …Well, such records seemed concrete before. Still, it’s something to take her mind off the present. Finding out what happened to Lady Sansa and Lady Arya after the war sounds like a good idea.

Once again, she finds herself in the research carrels of the Kingspyre, this time to find the fates of the ladies Stark after the war. This time, the more she reads, the more she smiles.

She goes back to her room to drop off her bag and finds a loosely materialized Jaime sprawled out on her bed and staring out the window. The moment he sees her, he becomes more solid—something she hadn’t even realized was at issue until his eyes clapped hers. 

“Brienne!”

“Jaime.” She can’t help the smile that pulls at her wide, thick lips, uncovering her large, uneven teeth as they fall into each other’s arms…such as they are. Her smile only widens when she sees his deepen at the sight of hers. _Of course, if I_ were _to find love, it_ would _be with a man long dead,_ she thinks wryly to herself. 

“Hey,” he chides, seemingly able to read her thoughts and pulling back to capture her eyes. “You are wonderful and I just happen to have waited a few centuries to maybe be worthy of running into you again. I’ve always played it cool, but I will have you know that I took it to entirely new levels just for you.”

They laugh, delighted with each other. 

“Jaime, do you know what happened to the Stark girls? After?” She feels him stiffen in her arms.

“No, only that I got Sansa to her half-brother at the Wall. When I died, I was fairly sure we’d beaten back the worst of their forces, of the Others, seeing as I still seem to stumble across the living. Between that and the sun eventually coming up again, I figured that was a sign that we’d won,” he grins, tightening his cool hold on her.

Brienne smiles into his neck. “You did. In fact, you died in the final battle. But they did not. Jon Snow became the King of the Dragon Queen. In a surprising move, Sansa was named Warden of the North and Lady of Winterfell, her brother Bran her chief councilor. Lady Arya found her way back home some time later, direwolf in tow. While she never stayed long in court, she was seen often enough for all sources to agree she survived and was somewhat involved with politics in the north. You did it. You not only brought Lady Sansa home, but it you made it possible for Lady Arya to come back to her in her own fashion. The Starks still hold Winterfell.”

She feels Jaime huff against her neck into her hair. And while her skin tells her it is cold, it makes her feel warm.

“There’s more. I spoke with the septon here.” She feels him stiffen in her arms. Seeking to reassure him, she runs her nose along the cool column of his neck before pulling back to look at him.

“He said the Seven might provide protection, that the Stranger would show the way to defeating them. We just have to figure out what their weakness in life was.”

Jaime shakes his head. “It’s not enough. We need a clear plan if we are to take them on. I am dead: they cannot do anything more to me than they have already done, but I fear for you. I _was there_ I know what they are capable of when they are able.”

And she sees this is true: he’s terrified for her.

“Please, love. Brienne. LEAVE. I don’t know if I can protect you.” Shame shines in his face as he looks away. “I did not before; I don’t know how I could continue if I failed again.”

“You will not. I have faith in you, Jaime— _Ser_ Jaime: in us, together.” She blinks. “We can do this. We must.”

He shakes his head, lost in her eyes and unable to deny her.

Sometime later, he pulls back to kiss her nose, then forehead, and is gone. She is becoming surprisingly accustomed to this retreat.

Feeling warm and loved and emboldened, she makes her way down to the bear pit for the evening lecture. While she is sure Jaime has given her details no researchers could, she hopes that a broader view might provide some useful insights to the battle ahead, things he wouldn’t have known having been in only one place at a time.

Knowing what happened to her here—no, _her ancestor_ , here—clearly Jaime is getting to her—she suppresses a shudder and takes a seat. It’s a sparse crowd and there’s plenty of room. The lecturer is a rotund young man with kind eyes who introduces himself as Sam. He doesn’t seem at all put off by the all the empty places and launches right into an enthusiastic overview of the history of Harrnehal’s role in the War of the Five Kings. She learns nothing new and at the end, asks a few questions seeking to pinpoint more about who the Bloody Mummers worked for and why they had such prominence. It’s a more nuanced question than the lecturer is used to and is more than happy to go into such minutiae, but it drives the few remaining spectators to wander off until it is just Brienne and Sam, standing in the middle of the pit. 

She thanks him for his time and turns to go when she is sure she hears a growl behind her. She turns back and sees nothing, but the dense, dark feeling of dread seizes her again. Sam doesn’t seem to have heard anything as he continues to walk away towards the Kingspyre Tower. 

Jaime materializes just in front her, his back to her front, and arm raised to prevent her from moving forward. “Be still. Sometimes the bear is restless, but it doesn’t tend to do anything other than roar to itself. Being an undead lion myself, I can sympathize,” he mutters. “I just don’t want it to draw the others.”

But it is too late: a form gathers in front of them and it hisses, “Well, look at who’s come back for more fun! It’s been such a long while. Getting slaughtered in the bear pit once before wasn’t enough? You wanted a repeat performance? I’d be happy to oblige!” The gathering form seems to be wearing a jester’s hat. “I was always sorry I never had a chance at your ugly cunt. If I kill you here, maybe me and my friends will finally be able to have some fun! Not like your friend handless here could stop all three of us.” 

And with this the shade, gathering form at alarming speed lunges toward her while at the same time, another growl, this time from behind her makes Brienne jump and Jaime seizes her hand. “ _Run_ ,” he commands and uses his body, such as it is, to push her in the direction of the exit, then running while pulling her hand. She does her best to ignore the laughter and rubble being thrown at her has they squeeze past the Tower of Ghosts and seek refuge in the sept.

They collapse against the doors to keep them shut, Jaime having folded Brienne in his arms when the septon ambles out, curious at the noise. His eyes widen at the sight of Jaime, golden-handed, gleaming sword at his side, and in his Night’s Watch black leathers once more. He looks to Brienne and back at Jaime and is at a loss for words.

Brienne manages to stammer, “Septon, we seek refuge.”

“Those malevolent spirits you mentioned earlier today?”

“Yes.”

“And I suppose this is the benevolent one of which you spoke?” He asks a little dryly, his eyebrow quirked at their close embrace. 

Jaime steps loosens his hold on her and repositions her in front of him, resting his chin on her shoulder as he grins. “It’s alright, septon. We’re old friends. _Very_ old friends. You could say I’ve been dying to meet up with her again for years. She mentioned you as well. Wench,” he pivots his head up to consider her, “you _have_ been busy today, haven’t you?”

The septon regards them, clearly trying to decide how to proceed. “I think you need to tell me the whole story from the beginning—the very beginning, which I’m guessing may be quite some time ago,” he notes nodding to Jaime.

And so they do, trading the tale back and forth with ease. Jaime begins with recounting the terms of his release from the Stark camp up until his death. (If the septon is surprised at the historical importance of the spirit in front of him, he hides it well. But then, his line of work has always required one to be a good listener and discrete with the rich and famous.) Brienne picks it up with her arrival at Harrenhal a few days ago, the reason for her visit, and what she’s experienced since.

“And so that’s why you wanted to know what the Faith of the Seven has to say about dealing with ghosts,” he muses once the whole story is complete. He looks to Jaime who is no longer embracing Brienne, but sitting next to her and holding her hand in his. “And what of you, ser? Do you seek release from this world to find peace at last?”

Jaime’s look and tone are fierce, and Brienne understands why they called him the Lion of Winter. “I am most concerned about my lady’s safety. I failed her once. I am sure that is why I have been cursed to haunt these grounds, infested with three who helped kill her. The first priority is banishing these seven-damned creatures. Finding my own rest can wait.” He kisses her hand, holding it to his heart, then kisses her temple. 

She gives him a soft smile in return, but the septon breaks the mood. “I agree. I admit I went back to some references after our discussion earlier today to review just what the sacred texts say about such things. Unfortunately, I do not have anything to add other than to confirm my earlier advice: seek the protection of the Seven and find out what their weakness in life was to use against them.”

They are quiet a few moments, each lost in their own thoughts. Jaime shakes his head. “I cannot remember a weakness of theirs, but it has also been a long time since I have tried to recall those days voluntarily. Perhaps we should all think on it.”

All agree to meet again in the sept tomorrow morning. Jaime tells them to wait and vanishes, causing the septon to jump. A moment later, he rematerializes and lets them know the way is clear. 

“Thank you, septon,” Brienne takes his hand as they turn to leave.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he mutters watching them go. His dog snuffles into his hand and whines a little at him. Grateful for the distraction, the septon decides that since no one has asked his counsel on a relationship between the living and the dead, he will not trouble himself to attempt to find an answer. They have more than enough to deal with anyhow.

~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ 

Safely ensconced back in her room, Brienne lets herself fall into Jaime’s arms, which he lets drive them both onto the bed. They are quiet a moment, content to lie there. Her stomach growls so she orders room service, not wanting to leave him.

She tries very hard to not think about what will happen to Jaime if they do manage to vanquish their enemies.


	5. A Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne and Jaime test some hypotheses.

She falls asleep, tucked in his strange embrace, gladly diving into dreaming, easier than ever. 

She surfaces on the rocky cliffs of Tarth, her special place, all fog and rough coastline and trees. Wearing her favorite fisherman’s sweater that used to be her dad’s before she stole it, leggings, and good hiking boots because she has never much minded the cold, she considers the horizon a full moment before she feels arms wrap around her from behind and she is surprised that she already knows him just from his touch.

“Where is this?”

“Tarth. One of my favorite spots. My most private spot. Where it’s so beautiful I can’t help but wonder and feel better. Where I’d go to retreat when things got too awful. When people got too awful.” Again, surprise that she is being so baldly honest with him but she feels him tighten his arms and kiss her just below her ear, rest his head against hers, the sea wind mixing her rough pale hair with his golden locks.

“I always wondered what it was like. Sometimes I’d imagine it,” he breathes. They breathe. “It’s not what I imagined, but it’s beautiful.”

She leans into him a bit, not ready to relinquish this feeling of being with him and watching the sea with the fresh, wild wind in their faces quite yet. “Oh?”

“I should have—it’s like you: clean, pure, rough, a little wild. But for all they talked about the sapphire waters of Tarth, they are a disappointment: your eyes are far more beautiful.”

She groans and rolls her eyes at his gallantry, laughing, turning to finally face him. He is dressed in a green flannel shirt and gansey, which of course he somehow manages make look natural on him, but instead of laughing eyes, she finds serious ones. He means it.

They kiss and she lets him pull her down into the tall grasses, find the slight dip sheltered by three weathered cypress trees and a large boulder. He pauses to strip his sweater and lay it down for her and covers her with his own body.

“I should have done this here so long ago.”

“Jaime, I know this a hard thing to tell a ghost, but you’ve got to learn to let it go. You seem to believe I am the same Brienne somehow that you knew, yes?”

“Yes.” His eyes burn with his surety.

“Well. I somehow moved on.” He stiffens in her arms, and she caresses his face, tightens her thighs around him to hold him, makes his eyes meet hers. “We are here _now_. Somehow. Against what must be against all kinds of laws of gods and nature. Still we find ourselves here, together, loving and fighting side by side. Everyone has regrets. You will make yours good. You are making my _own_ regrets good by being here with me right now.” She seizes his face in her hands. “Don’t defeat yourself before we begin: I will need you with me _now_.”

He stares at her a moment and she can see so many different emotions paint his face, washes that stain it in different colors as they each run down it at different speeds. It is one of the hardest things she’s done, but she simply waits for him.

She knows he’s reached his own when he nods and dips down to kiss her, slowly, thoughtfully, thoroughly. 

And then there, on the sea cliff where so many times she cried herself nearly sick to emptiness throughout her childhood and girlhood and womanhood for all kinds of reasons, they both exorcise their various demons.

~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ 

She wakes and feels completely refreshed. After Brienne eats breakfast, she heads over to the sept where Jaime joins her and the septon.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that,” Meribald mutters to himself as he waves them into his office, the dog curled contentedly at his feet once they all settle. He turns to Jaime, “Have you had any success? Thought of any weaknesses they had in life?”

Jaime is quiet a moment at looks at Brienne. “Bran told me what would have happened if I had gone back for you. One quiet afternoon—or what passed for one then, he found me and told me something of your adventures, that I sent you off with bespoke armor and my Valyrian steel sword to find Sansa.” 

“Wait, you had a Valyrian steel sword?” she sputters.

Jaime laughs, “Yes. It’s named Oathkeeper,” and he motions to the gleaming sword at his hip, then sobers. “It was forged from half of Ned Stark’s greatsword. My father thought it the perfect gift, but then I turned up empty handed to receive it. Regardless, I bore it to remind myself that I still had an oath to fulfill and that I should not seek to throw away what small shred of honor I had left: Ned Stark’s sword should defend his children. I thought of you every time I drew it.”

His eyes go distant as he tries to dredge up the distant memory. “What did Bran say would have been your fate? He said you wandered the Riverlands seeking rumor of Sansa or Arya. He said…” Jaime shuts his eyes trying to remember (and the septon thinks this is a remarkably human gesture for a spirit) “…he said that before throwing you into the bear pit, you bit Vargo Hoat’s ear off in defiance. He was dying from the infection by the time the Mountain got here. Some more were killed when the Lannister forces retook the castle, but three were unaccounted for. But Hoat’s not here.” 

Jaime’s eyes fly open wide, “ _Hoat’s not here_. _He’s_ not haunting this place, three of his godsawful associates are, but not him.” His eyes find Brienne’s. “Maybe it’s because you planted the seed of his death before he threw you to yours.”

The septon remains quiet, but Brienne asks, “What are you saying, Jaime?”

“Bran said while you wandered the Riverlands looking for Sansa, you ran across many bandits and did your best to protect the small folk. What if you were supposed to have killed the three Mummers who haunt this place with me? Why are these three here but not the rest of those who weren’t killed in action? What if they haunt here still because they did not get the death they deserved at your hands?”

“But then why aren’t I haunting this place, too, Jaime? Why would I live again?”

“Because you are too honorable and noble to be wasted on the world.”

If the circumstances weren’t so odd, the septon would have rolled his eyes, but he can’t help but get a little caught up in the tragedy and romance of it all. This doesn’t stop Brienne, who snorts at this hyperbole.

“Okay, that’s something. But you said I carried your sword.” She looks at the one strapped to his hip and they all exchange a look. He stands and tries to undo the sword belt. His fingers are nimble and he manipulates the straps and buckles with practiced ease. 

He gets to the last buckle and uses his golden hand to loosen the belt as his left holds the sword in its scabbard. He considers Oathkeeper for a long moment. All is completely silent. “I’ve carried this so long, it’s like a part of me.” He looks his lady. “But I would gladly give it to you, Brienne. I am already yours, and I feel it should be yours as well.”

She reaches out her hand to grasp the hilt with her right, the scabbard in her left. It feels natural in her grip. Their eyes meet and she and nods. They all look to the sword with bated breath. 

Jaime lets go.

Brienne has the sword.

The septon is speechless, but Jaime and Brienne share a startled laugh, but he sobers. “It is yours. It will always be yours,” he murmurs in her ear then leans back to look into her eyes and kiss her gently.

The septon is still speechless: they did _not_ tell him what to do in such cases. The dog pants happily at his feet, untroubled by the strange turn of events.

With a final soft smile at Jaime, Brienne breaks the embrace to turn towards the septon. “Well. I have the sword which has crossed worlds. Perhaps it will be enough to drive the remaining ghosts out?”

There is no answer to that, so none is given. She continues, “They seem to like the bear pit, and it makes sense: that is where I was killed and it’s an open area, but it should also be fairly easy for us to secure to make sure no one stumbles in by accident.”

Jaime nods, “Do you still know how to use a sword?”

“I fenced a little in college, did SCA with broadswords. Not with the real thing, of course, and not in real combat. I’m strong in hand-to-hand combat and firearms, though.”

“We’ll have to train. It’s been a while since I tested how far I could travel afield here. Maybe the godswood? Most visitors don’t venture in there and I have learned that those cretins cannot. Ironically, it’s been my only sure refuge in this blasted place. Perhaps a parting shot from Bran. We’d have some space.”

The septon finally finds his voice. “Are you seriously proposing that she can become a strong enough swordswoman to face these spirits?”

Jaime grins. “I _know_ she can. It’ll just take practice.” He sobers. “It will be a matter of whether we have time enough.”

“I’m strong enough,” she counters. Jaime blinks slowly and then throws his head back laughing.

“That used to be _my_ line, but you can have it: what’s mine is yours, after all.” He experimentally throws his cloak around her shoulders. It also manifests, but red instead of black. “If you’ll have it, my lady?”

They both stare at each other speechless a moment, but then Brienne nods and impulsively kisses him. “Shall we get started?” He offers her his arm, and she takes it, turning them toward the septon.

“I’ll continue to search for special blessings or protections. Before you leave, you might want to take a moment with the Warrior, the Smith, the Crone, and the Stranger.”

“Yes, and the Mother and Father as well, I think,” Brienne blushes. The septon nods, then shakes his head because there isn’t enough ale for this, and opens the door back into the sept where Jaime and Brienne separate to say their individual prayers, despite neither of them having been devout before.

The septon is grateful for the warm weight and toothy grin of the dog because how the hells else can he begin to accept any of this, he idly wonders to the Crone.

~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ 

They stride out to the godswood. “Did…did what I think happen just happen?” Brienne sputters. Jaime’s beaming countenance is all she needs to confirm it as so. She feels strangely calm. “Oh.”

He tucks her hand under his truncated right arm and leans into her, wearing a charmingly smug smile. “Trust me, it was centuries in the making.”

“And was it worth waiting for?” She quips, desperate to keep the conversational volley going while her head spins only to have it hit like a lead weight because he takes her in his arms. 

“Absolutely. I would wait another five hundred years for you to come back to me, for us to fight a righteous battle side by side while sleeping side by side.” He pauses, considering, quite serious. “Oh, and the fucking. The fucking is also _very _important.” His smile is as triumphant as his golden sword as he watches her blush and struggle not to sputter. “In fact, I think we will need to continue practicing—”__

__She elbows him and then stoops to pick up a branch and wields it how she think a sword might be held. He regards her a moment, clearly trying not to laugh and then does (with love), but then also takes a branch but standing properly. He waits. She looks at him, and subtly changes her stance. He nods his approval once, but then again sincerely. She will be an apt pupil. She has strength in her arms, legs, and core. She still knows how to learn to fight._ _

__He takes her through many different rudimentary drills until her muscles burn. Hours later, they take a moment to rest, backs up against the heart tree._ _

__“You know, at first I was worried that you do not seem to recall your prior training, and it’s true, you don’t. But you are in fine physical form and a fast learner, which is good. Your hand-to-hand skills are unlike any I’ve ever seen and incredibly effective. But it also calls to mind something else: they will remember the fighter that you were, not the fighter that you are.”_ _

__“What do you mean?”_ _

__“They have seen you fight before. Hells, they saw the end of our own glorious battle.” She looks at him as if he’s gone mad and he smiles at this, his grin deepening. “I still had my right hand, although I was half-starved and had been in a dungeon for a year. I had managed to get my hands on a blade. You were near drowning me in a stream trying to bash me into submission when they rode up and we froze. I told them they had caught me chastising my wife.” He sighs, smiling. “They didn’t believe me and you know the rest.” A moment. “I wonder if some part of me knew even then that I wanted you. You are so different from Cersei—thankfully so—I don’t think I could have comprehended the desire, let alone love, of any other woman, especially not one who was her opposite in all things.” He considers her a moment, then continues. “Anyhow, they’ve really only seen me fight left-handed, so you will be fighting using a blend of your hand-to-hand and my right-handed sword fighting. It may give you the surprise you need to defeat them. They will also never have truly faced Oathkeeper.”_ _

__They regard each other a moment, then he stands, offers her a hand up, and they go back to the keep._ _

____

~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ 

After a quick bite and a long shower washing the sweat of her afternoon’s exertions away (during which Jaime kindly offered to wash her back but ended up doing quite a bit more, continually testing the limits of what is possible between them), they tumble into bed and she falls effortlessly into sleep.

Brienne finds herself standing in a dirty castle yard she does not know wearing blue armor she does not recognize but feels familiar with a plain sword in hand. Opposite her stands Jaime dressed in his blacks, also carrying a nondescript blade. Snow softly falls around them, silent, blanketing both extraneous noise and light. Others mill about them, but they are featureless and the din of their work fades into a dull rhythm.

“Where are we?” she asks.

“The training yard of Castle Black. I thought of you sometimes here while I tried to train field hands, boys, later women and girls, too. Every time I felt myself getting frustrated, I thought of you. Thought of how you’d bragged of knocking men into the dust who underestimated you, how there might be another Brienne hidden in their midst if she or he had the proper training and chance. I thought about our last fight, wished to have that level of challenge, that kind of joy in the dance. King Jon and his wildling friend Tormund were the only ones who could give me any sort of difficulty by then, while it was instructive and somewhat cathartic, it wasn’t nearly as fun.” 

He tosses the sword from hand to hand, smiling to himself, going through positions, practicing strikes in the air. “I find your dreams particularly enchanting. Not only do I get _you,_ I get my right hand back.” He raises his eyes to hers. “It’s a rather good deal for you as well: you get a fully functioning me who has learned the painful but powerful lessons of the one-handed edition—and my right hand has so very many wonderful things it can do besides wield a sword with astonishing skill.”

Brienne interrupts, “But apparently I still get your indefatigable ego.”

He laughs heartily, eyes fond. “Since time is of the essence, and time is much more generous in sleep than in waking life, I’m afraid you must train here, too.” His smile darkens. “I plan to reward a promising, hard working student quite generously, however. Hence my bragging about my right hand,” he grins smugly.

Brienne blushes, then blushes even harder because she can’t believe he can still do this to her.

Then he stops and gives her what she imagines must be a courtly bow, the manner of which probably hasn’t been seen in centuries and grins.

“Shall we dance, my lady?”

“I don’t know the steps well, ser.” 

“As with all court dances, you need only follow my lead.” 

And dance they do. Clumsily at first, yes, but slowly Brienne begins to refine the stances and strikes he had showed her earlier in the godswood. It’s clear he’s going easy on her, but always providing a challenge. Jaime truly begins to appreciate his duty training recruits at Castle Black as he is now an experienced tutor for his most beloved pupil.

After many defeats, he straddles her, sword to her throat. “Yield?” 

She feels he is quite pleased to be positioned as he is. Exhausted, breathlessly, she confirms. “Yield.”

He can’t help himself: she has instinctively widened her legs to accommodate him and he grinds himself into her, her hips meeting his reflexively, leaving them both a little breathless. “Yield?”

“I yield,” she says, lust making her voice rough and her hands cup his face. It has been days and centuries since he waited for her to voice such trust and honest desire to him.

“Well fought, my lady,” and he leans down to kiss her deeply. Shortly thereafter, she yields again. 

And now Jaime knows that whatever happens, should he survive (for whatever that means for such as he), this memory of the training yard at Castle Black will keep him warm.


	6. An End

Everyday after breakfast, Brienne wanders out to the godswood and finds it empty of other people. She doesn’t think too long on how it’s remaining undisturbed, although there is a certain level of neutral…pressure…she pushes through to get to the heart tree. Its face is a hideous screaming maw of hatred, yet it troubles her not. It feels like it ought, but she senses no enmity here, only a watchfulness. While its righteous anger is very real, it is not angry at _her_.

Then Jaime appears and hands her one of the heavy branches he has whittled into a serviceable practice sword just a little heavier than Oathkeeper. 

They are both gratified by her swift progress, but also both frightened by the stakes and timeline. After lunch, she takes a couple of hours to relax, sometimes to read a frivolous book, perhaps soak in the nearly always deserted baths, in which case Jaime joins her because he cannot resist and she will never complain. (There is one time when they almost scandalize an unwitting retiree despite the steam but thankfully Jaime is incorporeal and disappears quickly…somewhat to Brienne’s chagrin, although she’d never admit it.)

Then they spar again until dinner. After she showers, they fall into bed into dreams for more satisfying togetherness, sharing instances and places from both their lives, and then start it all again the next morning.

Between restricting Brienne to the godswood, the sept, and the Kingspyre Tower, they have managed to mostly dodge the Mummers. The few times they have run afoul of them, Jaime has run interference while Brienne gets to safety. They do not want them knowing that Brienne has a few tricks up her sleeve: let them think she is wholly dependent upon him as she was the last time she was at Harrenhal. 

With only one more night and day before Brienne must leave, she and Jaime visit the sept. They have been irregular if frequent visitors, partly for respite, partly to have someone witness their love. (Neither Brienne nor Jaime would admit it, but this is important: if something happens to either of them, they want someone else to know what they were to each other.) 

They start separated as has become their ritual, Brienne starting with the Maiden whom she knew for so long, then each lighting a candle to the Mother and the Father respectively, then meeting up to light candles for the Warrior, the Smith, the Crone, and the Stranger in parallel. 

Meribald has felt the shift this day and comes out in his ceremonial robes and stands in front, the dog a serene, quiet guardian by of the door. They instinctively kneel, presenting their swords perpendicular to the floor, hands on their cross guards, knights of old.

“My children, do you mean to do battle with the shades that would seek to harm you and others?”

“Yes.”

“May the Maiden grant you the earnestness and energy of youth. May the Mother and Father watch over you and your love. May the Smith give your arms strength and skill. May the Crone light the way to victory. May the Stranger lead your foes astray, and failing that, lead you to peace.”

They bow their heads in earnest, and damned if Meribald can’t picture Brienne in blue armor. Despite the solemnity of the moment, the dog pads up and maneuvers between them both demanding attention and love. It breaks the tension and all three of them are happy to provide.

Jaime and Brienne break to exchange a look. The time has come. He reaches out to cup her cheek, and they regard each other. They lean in for a firm, chaste kiss, and step back. 

He breathes, “Whatever happens, know I love you. I have always loved you, even when I was too stupid to know it.” This has his desired effect as it transforms her soulful gaze that near breaks his heart into a hearty laugh and leaves her smiling.

“Jaime, know that whatever all this means, whoever I am, I know you. I forgive you. I love you.”

And then he can’t help his tears—only his wench could pull tears from a ghost—and they draw and salute each other. Meribald gives another gesture of blessing.

Jaime disappears to check the bear pit. He gives the signal it’s clear and when she strides into the arena, Oathkeeper strapped to her hip, she hears him block the only doors in.

“So, I finally learned who you sorry lot are,” she calls out. “It took a _lot_ of looking because you’ve been nearly completely forgotten. Despite your lovely letter on my mirror, hardly anyone remembers any of you. And why should they? Meal-mouthed mercenaries who sucked up to whoever paid them best, not who gave them the most worthy fight? Bloody Mummers? More like Bloody Children, still mewling about this place after all these years, trying to scare people because you’re so fucking pathetic. The afterlife not all you thought it would be? Cowards.” Brienne takes every stupid insult thrown at her in her life and throws it back a hundredfold.

The dark mist descends, denser than before. Brienne takes a deep, steadying breath against the dread it brings with it. Jaime is undetectable, but she knows he’s there. She imagines him standing behind her, correcting her form, giving her strength.

“Oh, _now_ you want to fight? Well _bring it,_ ” she roars, unsheathing Oathkeeper as she feels a presence, the one who must be Pyg, rush her. She cuts him down with ease, raising her sword to guard and pivoting to the next onslaught. The black and red blade seems to burn blue in this light. Behind her, she feels something dissipate. She cannot spare the attention to look, but an unseen Jaime whispers that Pyg is gone, he thinks for good.

Another rush, but this one returns her blows. She has forgotten what Jaime first looked like to her that first day, a rough human-sized shadow, and thinks they should have practiced this as well. She has gotten too used to fighting a human-like opponent. As the new adversary coalesces, she realizes she has gotten too used to fighting _swordsmen_ and this foe carries a spear. Her judo gives her an advantage, though: he does not expect her to move into him despite his weapon, and he has nearly become realized enough for her to make out rudimentary features as she delivers the killing blow. “Timeon is no more,” Jaime sings in her ear, her sword burning even brighter with azure flame.

She spins feeling something or someone bad at her back, sword raised, and parries just in time.

“Oh ho ho, lady. You have taken two of my friends from me! You cannot leave Shagwell all alone! You and your friend must join us! You should wear the lovely necklace of fingerbones we gave you,” he chuckles and draws a knife so large it is nearly a sword.

“You were so funny strapped face-to-face! You were the bear and he was the maiden fair! Still, it seems he has since licked the honey from your hair.” He turns to Jaime and admonishes him. “That’s not how the song goes.” Shagwell rolls in the dirt in his mirth, knife firmly in hand, one eye watching them both then springs to his feet, still a master tumbler.

Talking to himself, Shagwell considers, “I don’t know which I shall look forward to most: killing him first and making him kiss her after I’ve cut off her head or the other way around. When you do that, you can push out the eyes with some fingers and work the tongue with the other: finger puppets! Not sure who it would hurt the most to do that to, honestly.” He pauses to consider. “ But it will have to be one or the other though because the other options aren’t nearly as fun.”

If Jaime’s smile is a knife, Shagwell’s smile is a scythe and now Brienne is well and truly afraid. Still, she takes a breath like she’s always done when facing a foe, and again, she feels Jaime supporting her, giving strength to her limbs.

“Is that all you can do? Threaten me with a grotesquerie out of a penny dreadful?” She makes herself laugh. “Those things have been out of style for at least two hundred years. Face me like a man.”

“But _you_ are not a man.”

“Yes. And neither are you. Are you afraid of a woman then?”

Shagwell leaps to her, but Oathkeeper burns a brighter blue, its black and red blade blazing with sapphires, cutting through him easily. She roars her triumph. He wails his anger, fading away to nothing.

She sheathes Oathkeeper and is wrapped in Jaime’s arms, both laughing into each other’s hair for sheer joy.

But something feels different. She pauses, trying to identify exactly what it is. He seems to have reached the same conclusion because hands on her shoulders, he pulls back a little consider her. She reaches out a hand to trail down his cheek, then sweep back to bury her fingers in the hair at the nape his neck, so warm, soft.

Warm. Jaime’s _warm_. She can feel his hair running through her fingers.

“Jaime?” she breathes.

“Brienne?” he looks at her a little puzzled. She bends to bury her face in his neck and breathes him in. She can smell him, and she recognizes it somehow.

“Brienne, what’s the matter?”

“Jaime, I can smell you. You’re warm.”

“And…?” And then his eyes widen as he realizes the import of this and returns the favor, realizing he can feel her heartbeat booming against his own thundering chest, can smell her shampoo and sweet self. “Well, let’s really test this theory then,” he says as he pulls her face to his for the kind of kiss they’ve only been able to enjoy in her dreams and it’s so very much better in the waking world.

“But how? And look at you, what you’re wearing.” So they both do: he’s wearing a black sweater under a weathered black leather jacket, a pair of broken-in black jeans, and well-worn boots. Gone are his Night’s Watch blacks, although Brienne grins to herself that whatever has happened here has chosen an appropriate modern analogue.

“Maybe…” he trails off. “Does it even matter? Really? Is it any stranger than finding a haunted castle or reuniting with a centuries-old lost love?”

“I suppose,” Brienne isn’t quite ready to accept it—she’s already believed her three impossible things before breakfast for the day. She sneaks her hand into the back pocket of his jeans.

“Hey now, my lady. You used to be a lot more shy than this, although I’m not complaining,” Jaime leers at her, causing her to lightly smack his shoulder, and then wave a billfold at him. She opens it up and finds an ID with his name, contemporary date of birth, and Kings Landing address— _Brienne’s_ Kings Landing address. There are credit cards and cash. They marvel at it together.

“Maybe I got time off for good behavior.” 

Shaking their heads but warm hand-in-warm hand, they make their way to the sept. Meribald and the dog are sitting in front of the Stranger’s altar and turn when the door opens.

“If it isn’t the newlyweds,” Meribald beams at them. “How was your morning sparring practice?”

“I’m sorry?” Brienne blinks at him, unsure of what she’s just heard.

“Well, I can’t say I know many couples that like to bash at each other with swords for fun, ahem, but to each their own! And yours is rather magnificent. I guess that’s what comes with both of you being sworn to protect and serve and all that. I know you go home tomorrow, so why don’t you stay for a final lunch? You’ve been lovely company these past days and I’d like to give you a proper send-off.”

Jaime mostly picks at his food having to re-learn what it means to eat and drink, but distracts from his difficulties by peppering Meribald with questions about the outside world, playing up the “newlyweds out of touch” thing while Brienne makes food and drink disappear because she’s really quite hungry. His cleverness makes Brienne smile: people always did underestimate him because he was pretty, strong, and rich.

They make their way back to her—now _their_ room—and have too much to say and too few words but their wide, stunned looks say it all. _What can any of this mean? How is he alive? With an actual identity? What will this mean once she—they—leave Harrenhal?_

She pops into the bathroom (her lunch ale making itself known) and when she’s done, she leans in the doorway, gets Jaime’s attention, and nods for him to come look. Her own meager toiletries (toothbrush, toothpaste, all-in-one moisturizer, deodorant) have been joined by a razor, shaving cream, aftershave, and some sort of hair product that she isn’t even sure how to name.

He looks a little confused—he doesn’t quite understand what this means—and so she moves into the room and opens the closet. Her own clothes are joined by new shirts, jeans just a little too narrow waisted for her, and jackets, all obviously his (her own androgynous style notwithstanding). He continues to be puzzled. She opens the drawers in the dressers: boxer briefs and strange socks. On the floor of the wardrobe are two more pairs of shoes.

“Jaime, you have clothes here. You have _things_ here!” 

“But…how?”

“I don’t know, but then, I don’t know how you became a ghost or how I slayed three other ghosts or somehow got this amazing sword.” She pulls out his wallet again. “It looks like you have a name here, a life. Your ID card has my address as your home.”

“And the septon remembered we were married, but he didn’t seem to be surprised by my new…living?...state. The way he talked made it sound like he thought we’d come here together.”

“I thought that was particularly odd as well. These things that must be yours here,” she gestures about them, and jumps up, clearly inspired. She digs out the key folio from her back pocket. There in her distinctive scrawl in thick black marker on the key folio was her room number and “Lannister + Tarth.” Brienne knew that when she woke up this morning, the only name that had been there was “Tarth.”

“Jaime, what if you exist here now? What if you _have always_ existed here now?”

“What?”

“What if having succeeded in our quest, you now are alive and part of this world? What if it’s like you always existed in my Westeros, the way I always existed in yours?” He looks at her blankly, not following. 

“Seven, with a happier ending, I hope.”

“Me, too, Jaime. Me, too. Let’s make it so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure I owe the gruesome fingerpuppet details to Neil Gaiman's _Neverwhere_. Shagwell liked to play with heads and I needed something awful to do with them and remembered this rather effective detail from Mr. Gaiman. *fails at sincerely curtseying nearly as bad as Brienne does*
> 
> Thanks to everyone who kudo'd, and particularly to my regular commenters--you all really keep me going! Like, it doesn't even have to be nice things (I am quite open to actual criticism because I want to get better, although this fandom is _remarkably_ kind and I love it for that), but just to know someone else is reading and interested in the story makes a real difference. Thank you!
> 
> The reason this is delayed is because I rewrote the ending quite significantly. I saw some requests, and some of them raised some excellent points re: the narrative/world so I thought it over and decided that they now made more sense. So.
> 
> But if you want the original ending, let me know! I think I still prefer it, but what do I know?


	7. Alternate Ending: Chapter 6 v2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because folks were curious, here it is: the original ending for this story. The only reason I re-wrote was because some of the commenters raised _really_ excellent questions about the world building that I felt deserved addressing and so I changed things. That's what's so great about posting stories here: the feedback! And in this fandom in particular, you get really amazing writers posting really helpful comments. It's special.

Everyday after breakfast, Brienne wanders out to the godswood and finds it empty of other people. She doesn’t think too long on how it’s remaining undisturbed, although there is a certain level of neutral…pressure…she pushes through to get to the heart tree. Its face is a hideous screaming maw of hatred, yet it troubles her not. It feels like it ought, but she senses no enmity here, only a watchfulness. While its righteous anger is very real, it is not angry at _her_.

Then Jaime appears and hands her one of the heavy branches he has whittled into a serviceable practice sword just a little heavier than Oathkeeper. 

They are both gratified by her swift progress, but also both frightened by the stakes and timeline. After lunch, she takes a couple of hours to relax, sometimes to read a frivolous book, perhaps soak in the nearly always deserted baths, in which case Jaime joins her because he cannot resist and she will never complain. (There is one time when they almost scandalize an unwitting retiree despite the steam but thankfully Jaime is incorporeal and disappears quickly…somewhat to Brienne’s chagrin, although she’d never admit it.)

Then they spar again until dinner. After she showers, they fall into bed into dreams for more satisfying togetherness, sharing instances and places from both their lives, and then start it all again the next morning.

Between restricting Brienne to the godswood, the sept, and the Kingspyre Tower, they have managed to mostly dodge the Mummers. The few times they have run afoul of them, Jaime has run interference while Brienne gets to safety. They do not want them knowing that Brienne has a few tricks up her sleeve: let them think she is wholly dependent upon him as she was the last time she was at Harrenhal. 

With only one more night and day before Brienne must leave, she and Jaime visit the sept. They have been irregular if frequent visitors, partly for respite, partly to have someone witness their love. (Neither Brienne nor Jaime would admit it, but this is important: if something happens to either of them, they want someone else to know what they were to each other.) 

They start separated as has become their ritual, Brienne starting with the Maiden whom she knew for so long, then each lighting a candle to the Mother and the Father respectively, then meeting up to light candles for the Warrior, the Smith, the Crone, and the Stranger in parallel. 

Meribald has felt the shift this day and comes out in his ceremonial robes and stands in front, the dog a serene, quiet guardian by of the door. They instinctively kneel, presenting their swords perpendicular to the floor, hands on their cross guards, knights of old.

“My children, do you mean to do battle with the shades that would seek to harm you and others?”

“Yes.”

“May the Maiden grant you the earnestness and energy of youth. May the Mother and Father watch over you and your love. May the Smith give your arms strength and skill. May the Crone light the way to victory. May the Stranger lead your foes astray, and failing that, lead you to peace.”

They bow their heads in earnest, and damned if Meribald can’t picture Brienne in blue armor. Despite the solemnity of the moment, the dog pads up and maneuvers between them both demanding attention and love. It breaks the tension and all three of them are happy to provide.

Jaime and Brienne break to exchange a look. The time has come. He reaches out to cup her cheek, and they regard each other. They lean in for a firm, chaste kiss, and step back. 

He breathes, “Whatever happens, know I love you. I have always loved you, even when I was too stupid to know it.” This has his desired effect as it transforms her soulful gaze that near breaks his heart into a hearty laugh and leaves her smiling.

“Jaime, know that whatever all this means, whoever I am, I know you. I forgive you. I love you.”

And then he can’t help his tears—only his wench could pull tears from a ghost—and they draw and salute each other. Meribald gives another gesture of blessing.

Jaime disappears to check the bear pit. He gives the signal it’s clear and when she strides into the arena, Oathkeeper strapped to her hip, she hears him block the only doors in.

“So, I finally learned who you sorry lot are,” she calls out. “It took a _lot_ of looking because you’ve been nearly completely forgotten. Despite your lovely letter on my mirror, hardly anyone remembers any of you. And why should they? Meal-mouthed mercenaries who sucked up to whoever paid them best, not who gave them the most worthy fight? Bloody Mummers? More like Bloody Children, still mewling about this place after all these years, trying to scare people because you’re so fucking pathetic. The afterlife not all you thought it would be? Cowards.” Brienne takes every stupid insult thrown at her in her life and throws it back a hundredfold.

The dark mist descends, denser than before. Brienne takes a deep, steadying breath against the dread it brings with it. Jaime is undetectable, but she knows he’s there. She imagines him standing behind her, correcting her form, giving her strength.

“Oh, _now_ you want to fight? Well _bring it,_ ” she roars, unsheathing Oathkeeper as she feels a presence, the one who must be Pyg, rush her. She cuts him down with ease, raising her sword to guard and pivoting to the next onslaught. The black and red blade seems to burn blue in this light. Behind her, she feels something dissipate. She cannot spare the attention to look, but an unseen Jaime whispers that Pyg is gone, he thinks for good.

Another rush, but this one returns her blows. She has forgotten what Jaime first looked like to her that first day, a rough human-sized shadow, and thinks they should have practiced this as well. She has gotten too used to fighting a human-like opponent. As the new adversary coalesces, she realizes she has gotten too used to fighting _swordsmen_ and this foe carries a spear. Her judo gives her an advantage, though: he does not expect her to move into him despite his weapon, and he has nearly become realized enough for her to make out rudimentary features as she delivers the killing blow. “Timeon is no more,” Jaime sings in her ear, her sword burning even brighter with azure flame.

She spins feeling something or someone bad at her back, sword raised, and parries just in time.

“Oh ho ho, lady. You have taken two of my friends from me! You cannot leave Shagwell all alone! You and your friend must join us! You should wear the lovely necklace of fingerbones we gave you,” he chuckles and draws a knife so large it is nearly a sword.

“You were so funny strapped face-to-face! You were the bear and he was the maiden fair! Still, it seems he has since licked the honey from your hair.” He turns to Jaime and admonishes him. “That’s not how the song goes.” Shagwell rolls in the dirt in his mirth, knife firmly in hand, one eye watching them both then springs to his feet, still a master tumbler.

Talking to himself, Shagwell considers, “I don’t know which I shall look forward to most: killing him first and making him kiss her after I’ve cut off her head or the other way around. When you do that, you can push out the eyes with some fingers and work the tongue with the other: finger puppets! Not sure who it would hurt the most to do that to, honestly.” He pauses to consider. “ But it will have to be one or the other though because the other options aren’t nearly as fun.”

If Jaime’s smile is a knife, Shagwell’s smile is a scythe and now Brienne is well and truly afraid. Still, she takes a breath like she’s always done when facing a foe, and again, she feels Jaime supporting her, giving strength to her limbs.

“Is that all you can do? Threaten me with a grotesquerie out of a penny dreadful?” She makes herself laugh. “Those things have been out of style for at least two hundred years. Face me like a man.”

“But _you_ are not a man.”

“Yes. And neither are you. Are you afraid of a woman then?” They leap at each other and she has beheaded him. She roars her triumph.

Then she looks down. Shagwell managed to gut her. She is bleeding profusely. She realizes she is leaning on Jaime. Oathkeeper’s spectral blue flames are extinguished in the crimson pool of her very real blood. The sands of the bear pit seem to soak it up as Jaime cradles her, crooning his anguish.

“But we did it, Jaime. We won.”

“Brienne…” he can’t say more than her name, rocking her, holding her close.

“Jaime…” And she breathes her last, the import of her limp deadweight unmistakable. 

“Brienne, no! This wasn’t supposed to happen! Not again! Not here! Not with me here to save you!” he roars.

“Love.” Her voice is gentle in his ear from behind, her arms strong around him, holding him tighter.

He looks at her lifeless body, ghostly tears blurring his eyes made greener for all the red and pink around them and turns to look at her. She points, and he looks back down at her lifeless body in a pool of blood. He looks back to her holding him and to her on the ground. 

The Brienne holding him is in scuffed blue armor, a golden lion-headed sword at her hip winking with ruby eyes, scars all over what of her he can see. The other Brienne lies lifeless, unmarked, wearing a large richly cabled fisherman's sweater and leggings. He takes a moment to look between the two of them, and then turns to the woman in his arms. He catalogues her wide, large-lipped mouth; over-big crooked teeth; dense freckling that trailed down into her gorget; dry, straw-like hair; strong arms; shy smile; astonishingly blue eyes. 

“Jaime, I am here. With you.”

He kisses her and she kisses him and they are content as their lips and tongues meet that this is their love, truly, at last. 

Hand in hand, they make their way out of the bear pit and towards the godswood ready for whatever might come next, but being somehow sure it will be together.

Standing aside, yet again a silent witness, Septon Meribald is grateful for the weight and warmth of the dog leaning against him as he watches them fade into the fog-bound trees.


End file.
